La Dàdiva
by Sat-Isis
Summary: Gríma, confronted with his actions that have lead to the fall of Rohan, rushes to Helm’s Deep to warn the Rorrihim of the impending danger. He gets caught up in the battle for Éowyn’s sake and for the sake of his own redemption.
1. Warlock, Oathbreaker, & Everything

Title: The Gift (a working title)

Authoress: Sat-Isis/Suten Net

Fandom: Lord of the Rings

Pairing: Gríma/Éowyn

Genre: Romance, Angst, Humor, AU

Rating: PG – 13

Warnings: AU, Movieverse

Archive: Yes! Just ask.

Summary: Gríma, confronted with his actions that have lead to the fall of Rohan, rushes to Helm's Deep to warn the Rorrihim of the impending danger. He gets caught up in the battle for Éowyn's sake and for the sake of his own redemption.

* * *

The Gift

Gríma, called Wormtongue, absently licked the blood welling up from the corner of his mouth. The gesture was at once unconscious and soothing. He had been summoned. A great whoosh of air from the opening door made him look up. The door slammed against the wall as Saruman appeared from beyond the threshold.

"You have failed me," a statement, not a question, and then a hard glare, "wipe that blood off your face." Saruman turned on his heel and strode back into the room, expecting his immediate compliance.

"Gandalf the White – Gandalf the fool!" Saruman paced wringing his hands, "Does he seek to humble me with his newfound piety?"

Gríma sidled through the threshold; his eyes taking the details of the room in. It was dark and shadowed, ne'er had he seen it such before. Ne'er had he seen Isengärd in such a state either.

"There were three who followed the wizard: an elf, a dwarf, and a man," Gríma's steps brought him closer to Saruman with each word. Saruman sneered with each sniff of his overlarge nose,

"You stink of horse." Gríma opted wisely for the silence as he made his way out of the dark room.

"The man," Gríma turned at Saruman's voice, "was he from Gondor?" Saruman arched a steel brow.

"No, from the North," Gríma patted the blood at the corner of his mouth. He wanted out of this horrible room. "One of the Dunadain Rangers I thought he was. His cloth was very poor – and yet – he bore a strange ring," his face contorted at the memory and he indicated on his finger where the dark haired man had worn the ring. "Two serpents with emerald eyes," the room was so cold his nose began to run; he would give Saruman his precious knowledge so he could be dismissed from this dark, cold room. "One devouring the other crowned with golden flowers."

Saruman went to his library and Gríma obediently followed, yet hung back at the room's threshold. It was far colder in that room. With hands like spiders, Saruman plucked a book from his self and sat. His nails grazed the pages, seeking out what he wanted.

"The Ring of Barahir." A pause. "So Gandalf Greyheim thinks he has found Iseildor's heir: the last king of Gondor – he is a fool! The line was broken years ago." He snapped the book shut, contemplating. Gríma kept silent and watched with interest Saruman's violent mood swings.

"It matters not. The world of men shall fall. It will begin with Edoras." When Saruman fell into his own dark musings, Gríma walked out of his mater's chambers. Though his mind cried "Out! Out!" he dared not draw attention to himself.

He found an empty room that was not so dark or so cold and sat upon its bed. Two days gone from Edoras and he was still no better than when Hama and his guards had thrown him bodily from the Golden Hall. At least he was still alive, miserable, but alive. He collapsed on the bed, pressing his handkerchief against his bleeding mouth. He was exhausted from his long ride and soon passed into sleep.

* * *

He had been summoned and found himself in much better spirits after resting. He still bled at the mouth and pressed at the blood with his soiled handkerchief. Saruman's Chambers were as foreboding as before, but now it did not press on him so. Today, Saruman sat, sure of himself and listening intently to Gríma's words.

"Théoden will not stay at Edoras. It is vulnerable – he knows this. He will expect an attack on the city. They will flee to Helm's Deep: the great fortress of Rohan." Gríma glanced at Saruman to find the wizard's inner machinations showing through his eyes. "It is a dangerous road to take through the mountains. It will be slow; they will have women – and children – with them." Saruman's mouth twitched and would have smiled -- if it only remembered how.

He stood up abruptly and strode out of his chambers. Gríma skittered behind him. Down dark hallways and down dark stairwells into the dark outdoors he followed Saruman. His eyes swept the Orc ridden grounds of Isengärd and he suppressed a shudder.

"Send out your Warg Riders," Saruman said to a particular Orc and his lips drew back over his teeth in the semblance of a smile. He could see the Wargs, those great snarling beasts. Disgusting, frightful creatures they were, and Gríma made his way back up to his quaint little room amid the gloom of Isengärd.

* * *

Gríma approached Saruman's Chambers. He had been summoned; again…this time to be questioned directly in regard to Helm's Deep no doubt. This time he had acquired a single candle holder to light his way through the dark halls. It was then that a drop of molten candle wax decided to splash across the back of his hand and Gríma flinched. He quickly drew his other hand up to brush the cooling wax off. Then he was assaulted by Saruman's booming voice,

"What took you so long? Never mind. Tell me of Helm's Deep." Gríma followed Saruman's voice into his laboratory. He was making something insidious, conjuring destruction. He was muttering under his breath, on how fire could undo stone, and his hair was uncombed. Gríma was starting to question Saruman's sanity.

"Helm Deep has one weakness. Its outer wall is solid rock, but for a small culvert at its base…which is little more than a drain," Gríma answered obsequiously. He let confusion twist his face as he moved to get a closer look at what Saruman was concocting in that strange cauldron.

"How? How can fire undo stone?" Gríma mimicked Saruman's words. "What kind of device could bring down the wall?" He stood over Saruman's concoction looking down into what looked like black pepper corns. He sniffed and then his breath stilled in his chest as Saruman's hand snatched out and held his wrist in an ice cold death grip. Very firmly, he pushed Gríma back and walked out of his laboratory, expecting to be followed.

"If the wall is breached, Helm's Deep will fall," Saruman informed. Gríma walked quickly to keep up with Saruman. He still did not understand Saruman's plans and for once he spoke his mind,

"Even if it is breached, it would take a number beyond reckoning…thousands to storm the keep!"

"Tens of thousands," Saruman corrected. Gríma was growing impatience and it made his tongue unwisely loosen,

"But, my lord, there _is_ no such force!" And then Gríma found himself on Saruman's balcony, looking down. He could not believe at first what he saw. His insides were at once turning to ice and bursting into flame. _So, this is what Saruman has been planning_, was Gríma's one rational thought. Amid the organized chaos below came silence at Saruman's command and his voice rolled over Gríma like crashing waves,

"A new power is rising. Its victory is at hand. This night...the land will be stained with the blood of Rohan!" The dark and hideous horde below screeched and bellowed trumpets in jubilation. Saruman continued,

"March to Helm's Deep! Leave none alive! TO WAR!" Distantly, Gríma felt a tear roll down his cheek as Saruman's army turned about face and began to march; an army more than ten thousand strong.

"There will be no dawn for man," Saruman said quietly. Gríma stared at him, horrified. Saruman was mad. He backed away from the wizard who continued to gaze down upon his army as if it where a son to be proud of. Gríma went to his room, nearly running, and bolted the door. He leaned heavily against it, panting and wheezing.

Saruman the White was a warlock; an oath breaker. It mattered not now whether Gríma had succeeded or failed as the end would have been the same. Death and destruction was all the White Wizard had to offer and Gríma, fool that he was, had failed to see what was so plainly apparent now. He was no different from Théoden, enthralled by Saruman to do his bidding. No, he was worse than Théoden - Théoden had been trusting, a trait Gríma did not possess. Oh, but the White Wizard was cunning, offering a prize so desirable no man could resist, least of all Gríma.

That, however, was the not the most darkly amusing thought that crossed through his mind at present. Thinking Helm's Deep impregnable to Saruman's forces had freely delivered to his cruel master the means to the end of his dreams. And those damn Rohirrim, so predictable, would make Helm's Deep their tomb! It would make a fitting monument to the glorious fall of Rohan.

Éowyn! His eyes and hands worked themselves feverishly, twitching.

The army was enormous and their weapons many, but in the end it would only serve to slow them down. Surely a single man on horseback could travel faster. Spurred by desperation he hoped there would be enough time to warn Théoden – enough time for them to escape the deathtrap of Helm's Deep. Enough time to save…

Everything.


	2. Plotting, Sneaking, & Kleptomania

**La Dàdiva**

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Gríma paced his room fiercely, his mind working feverously. Saruman's army was enormous and their weapons many, but that would only serve to slow them. He realized he was talking to himself, his words and thoughts cycling back on themselves over and over again, 

"Surely a single, slight man on horseback could travel faster." Spurred on by desperation he hoped there would be enough time to warn Théoden – there had to be. Gríma wrung his hands together despairingly.

He had to mount his horse and slip out from under Saruman's large nose in one piece. It seemed a monumental task, but one he would accomplish. He had no choice now.

Thankfully, he had eaten some small thing before Saruman had revealed his lethal forces, but he was not as stupid or preoccupied as to fail in obtaining water skins. He would drive his mount hard – possibly even unto death. Gríma made a mental checklist of what he would need before leaving; some foodstuffs, perhaps a blanket, water skins he reminded himself and anything else he came across that might be useful. He would do his best to keep from killing his mount – he needed to reach Helm's Deep in time. He must.

Gríma slid the bolt aside and eased the door open. He peered into the hallway before slinking out of his room. He needed to know what Saruman was doing. If he did not plan his exit perfectly he would fail and he trembled at the thought.

He came before Saruman's chambers and pressed an ear to the door. It was quiet inside which meant nothing in particular. He opened the door and passed into the antechamber without notice. Saruman was not in sight. His anxiety only increased the oppressiveness of the rooms tenfold. Gríma stepped into Saruman's library and peered about. There were maps upon the table. He was panting with excitement now. Glancing about him again he reached out and grabbed a handful, stuffing them under his clothes.

He left the library and was about to make his way out of Saruman's chambers when he noticed a door. A shiver ran down his spine, a cold sweat trailing in its wake before it settled in his stomach with a sharp pang. He could not remember door being there. Curiously, Gríma softly, deftly, pushed open the door.

It was the darkest of all rooms. He did not want to pass over the threshold where the cold crept just beyond. He was about to turn when a flash of color halted him. Gríma turned his gaze to the center of the room to find a glowing orb placed atop a pedestal in the center of the room.

It called to him and he passed the threshold. It was very pretty. Gríma wished to touch it. He found himself before it and reached out with both hands, fingers steady as he caressed the smooth, glossy orb. With the realization that his mind had been made before he entered the chamber, Gríma wrapped the orb in his lota. He held it like a child against his chest and carried it back to his room.

He placed his spoil on his bed and regarded it for a moment. Then he turned on his heel and headed for the storerooms. He knew he would find water skins, saddlebags, and foodstuffs there.

* * *

Notes of the Authress:

I am sorry for the short chapter, but I have hit a wall. I did not wish to leave you all hanging until I got things sorted out. I have never read the books by Tolkien, but I do wish to incorporate some of that into this story. I am also sorry - I have tried - but I just cannot read Tolkien. Forgive me. If anyone can help me out, please e-mail me.

Sat-Isis


End file.
